


Leo's Model

by alephdara



Series: Not doing their job [2]
Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Canon Compliant, Crowley is friends with Leonardo, Food, Michelangelo and Leonardo hate each other, No I didn't make that up, Nude Modeling, Painting, Renaissance Era
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-01
Updated: 2021-02-01
Packaged: 2021-03-12 22:15:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,126
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29142825
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alephdara/pseuds/alephdara
Summary: Two conflicting artists converge on the early Renaissance Firenze (Florence, Italy). Of course Crowley and Aziraphale had to be there.
Series: Not doing their job [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2070633
Comments: 9
Kudos: 9





	Leo's Model

Firenze, 1505.

"Would you stop squirming?"

The fire crackled happily in the fireplace, warming the wide room. Numerous contraptions cluttered the corners, the purpose of which could only be ascertained by a large imagination supported, or rather twisted, by a mind out of time. The rolls and parchments scattered on the table sported all kinds of sketches, from a sinewy drawing of the muscles of a skinless horse to detailed blueprints for something that looked like a turtle with an umbrella, all surrounded by hyeroglyphic gibberish. A platter of cheese and fruit and a flagon of wine were perched precariously on a corner, threatened by the rest of the table occupants.

Behind the table a man scribbled furiously, raising his head every now and then to focus in the center of the room, where a naked slim body tried to mantain a contorted posture. He had to be quick to capture the lines and angles highligted by the light that came through the window, and not let himself be distracted by the way his model's fiery hair blazed in the sun.

Said model started grumbling, while attempting (and miserably failing) to scratch his backside without being noticed by the artist.

"Amico mío, you might have the face of an angel, but you're certainly a demon to work with." complained the painter.

"Don't know if I oughta to feel flattered of offended by that."

"Then stay still and look pretty."

It is a well known fact that demons have no shame or self-consciousness, being the instruments for the fall of mankind and all that. What is not often said is that demons can certainly blush, the proof of that slowly creeping the neck and cheeks of the nude model. The demon stood obedieltly unmoving during the rest of the session, for a given definition of "unmoving". This particular demon wasn't very big on following commands, after all.

An eternity later, the artist left his chair, reached for the flagon of wine and poured its contents onto a couple of wooden cups.

"That's enough for today, Antonio mío." He offered the demon one of the cups before patting his arse. "That's all the light we had for our work. Go flutter around."

Not worrying about something as menial as clothes, the demon Crowley took a hearty gulp from his cup and set to slither around the studio. He stopped in front of the drawings on the table. "Ugh, horses. Evil beasts, if you ask me."

"But gorgeous to look at, same as you." the artist lifted the demon's chin with one finger, before abruptly turning away to grab some of the parchments on the table and wave them dramatically. "Well, I have to work for the war. And battles are fought on horses, contrary to whatever that thick-bearded son of a goat might say."

Crowley smirked playfully. "Oh, Mike can't be that bad an artist." which earned him a swatting with the parchments.

"That marblefucker's idea of a battle is drowning everyone in a river." He served himself and Crowley some more wine. "Horses can be anything you say, but when you find something better to go to war in, let me know."

He crouched in front of the weirdest contraptions. "Honestly, Leo. I'd rather ride a boat with wheels than deal with those hellions again."

"A boat with wheels..." Leo dipped a pen in a sepia ink bottle and scrambled the parchments on his table, looking for any available drawing space.

Ignored, Crowley set up to dressing himself and sauntered out unnoticed. "Guess I'll see you later."

***

"Are you sure I'm supposed to be naked?" Two perfect golden eyebrows creased, deep blue eyes underneath darkened with worry.

"When have you seen an angel wearing clothes?" The painter's brush stroked the canvas, capturing with soft curves the body laying prone over the silk sheets, the almost white curls of his hair, the cherubic face cradled in hands manicured by the latest fashion.

"Well, I suppose it sounds reasonable..." the angel conceded, and resumed his position.

The high ceiling of the room did nothing to keep the warm air inside close to the ground, sending shivers running over the smooth skin on the wooden dais at the least gust of air coming from the open windows. Huge marble statues cramped the place, making it look way smaller than it really was, and probably sucking up heat, cooling the studio even more. Aziraphale found himself envying some of the statues' cloth covering, stone as it was, the soft silk under him doing next to nothing to keep some warmth. Why the Chinese choose texture over comfort, was beyond his understanding. Not only the Chinese, he mused, remembering Gabriel's fondness of fine coverings.

The painter groaned. "Fuck, I'm late! Go get dressed, we'll continue another day."

Aziraphale tried without much success to school his face against showing his relief. Not that the artist noticed, busy as he was washing up the brushes and putting the painting oils away.

"Oh, right, then. You have to be somewhere?" asked Aziraphale. the thick cloth of his breeches warming him already.

"To the Vecchio" the artist snarled. "Can't believe I have to work alongside that bastard of Vinci."

"I've seen some of his work, and it doesn't seem half bad."

"Retract yourself this very moment, or I'll throw your clothes into the fire!" the pointed finger hovered for a menacing second, and went back to packing stuff in a leather bag. "Doesn't even know what people look like. Horses, horses. Everything is horses to him!"

The angel focused on adjusting his clothes, lest the threat were retaken. "My dear Michelangelo, you know you have nothing to worry about. I'm sure you'll get the Rome contract you want so much."

"What if they don't like my work?" his face softened. "Or worse, if they ask me to cover it? You know how much I hate painting clothes."

Aziraphale cradled the painter's face. "Well, if they don't see the genius I see, it's their loss."

***

Caleidoscopic smells filled the small shop. Roasted artichokes fought the basil and garlic for supremacy, while the cinnamon took the fruits and wines to a new level of the battlefield. In a preferential table, an impeccably white linen tablecloth sported the finest selection of the shop's delicacies.

Aziraphale took a deep breath, inhaling the aromas in front of him. The shop owner poured for him his best trebbiano wine from a delicately worked glass and gold jug.

"Everything to your liking, sire?"

The angel's smile gave the restaurant another ten years of excellent produce and unending customers. "My dear fellow, you spoil me. Thank you very much."

He scanned the contents of the table, unsure of which delicacy he should attack first. At last, he decided to follow the recently stablished fashion and, giving a silent blessing to the cook, dipped his spoon in a dense zucchini soup. The moan that escaped his lips almost shadowed the tingle of magic that told him of another ethereal presence. He happily turned to his left side with a wiggle.

"Crowley! You timing is perfect! May I treat you to lunch?"

Crowley draped around the chair is what could look like a sitting position, if you tilted your head to the side and squinted until your eyes watered. "Sure, what's good here?"

The expression on Aziraphale's face could be described as a mixture of the pride of a museum's curator at the opening of a favorite collection and the glee of a child recently asked to choose their favorite candy at a store.

"Well, everything here is simply exquisite. You could try the gnocchi that just came out of the pot, they're so soft they will melt in your mouth! And maybe the stew beef with black pepper and chianti sauce... or the orange duck with artichokes..." he finished with a hopeful smile. Crowley noticed that he didn't mention any of the dishes already on the table.

"I'll have the gnocchi, then. And you can steal a couple while we're here, as always." Aziraphale blushed delightfully.

The gnocchi were promptly devoured, along with a string of other, more robust courses, and a couple of bottles of the best wines of the house. Aziraphale sighed, seeing the end of his pears with ricotta ice cream coming closer. Crowley watched him with a soft smile. "Hey, angel. Those gnocchi were different from usual. What did they have? It wasn't the sauce..."

"That must be the _patate_ " glowed Aziraphale. "It's one of the discoveries of the New World. The ships have been bringing lots of delicious food, among all their terrible looting. The cooks are both delighted and frightened at the sight of so many different things to work with."

The demon cackled lowly. "I can see that." New food, new possibilities for endless ways to tempt the humans into gluttony, envy, pride, and to ruin bits of themselves on the way downstairs. He could see himself having fun with that, maybe speed up some paperwork.

As if reading his thoughts, Aziraphale changed subjects. "I assume you're doing some tempting while you're around here."

"Not much. Leo is enough of a warmonger even without my help. These humans can imagine the most awful killing contraptions, let me tell you. How about you? Lots of blessings going around?" he wiggled his eyebrows suggestively. Aziraphale opened his mouth in an automatic response, but then thought it better and let go a resigned sigh.

"Not that much, either. I'm supposed to inspire religious art, but there's little I can do when the artists already come up with these marvellous paintings, sculptures, and oh, the music! I would lose myself in such gorgeous music..."

The supernatural beings drifted into a wistful silence, lost in thought about the wonders and cruelty the human beings were capable of, also a bit humbled on account of not being needed for the topmost achievements and utter damnations of mankind. Her creatures were perfectly capable of reaching any imaginable extreme (and then some) without any angelic or demonic help.

It was the turn of the angel to break the silence.

"So, you're working with Leonardo, then? Helping him with his war machines, I suppose?"

The demon blushed, stuttering. "Nah, I barely understand how those things work, anyway. I've been more on the... visual reference... side of things."

"They certainly do need a lot of visual references." agreed Aziraphale, adjusting his clothes. "Although Michelangelo seems to deem alive and dead bodies interchangeable. Actually, he says he prefers working with corpses, since 'they don't squirm around nor ask for payment'." This earned a chuckle from Crowley.

"And how's Mike going? Still angry at Leo?" he teased.

The angel rolled his eyes. "His name is Michelangelo, not 'Mike'. And yes, He thinks Leonardo is undeserving of his fame, and probably petty enough to use it to get the contract to paint the Sistine Chapel, in Rome."

"Oh, I don't know. Leo seems to like Firenze too much. Lots of luxuries, none of the religious fuckery of Rome." Crowley seemed to reflect on something. "If only he wasn't so fixated on horses", he growled.

"Let me tell you that Michelangelo is pouring himself on a battle painting for the Vecchio. He's sure that'll win him the Sistine contract." He announced proudly, as if telling of the achievements of an apprentice.

"Wait a second, the Palazzo Vecchio? That's where Leo's painting some battle or other right now."

Aziraphale straightened in his seat. "They're working at the same place? That can't be good."

Crowley settled the bill with a snap of his fingers while leaving his seat. "Oh, I gotta see that." he grinned. Aziraphale fretted, twisting his hands, but following the demon anyway.

***

The doorway to the council chamber of the Palazzo Vecchio was crawling with people, but no one dared to enter it. Crowley and Aziraphale flowed unseen among the crowd until they got to the entrance itself. The scene inside the chamber left them both speechless. Pots of paint were laying around, their contents scattered on every surface; multicolored streaks crisscrossed the room, where remains of the battle scenes were still visible on opposite walls. In the middle of the chamber, a different battle scene was taking place. In a flurry of robes and paint, two middle aged men struggled in the sort of amateurish dirty combat only artists are capable of. Amid grunts and pain cries, unutterable insults were heard, ranging from stylistic critiques to direct questioning of each other's lineages. Aziraphale let a disappointed sigh leave his lips. Crowley laughed breathlessly, wiping some tears from his cheeks.

"Let's go, dear. There's not much we can do here."

"I agree, angel. What'd you say to some wine? My treat."

**Author's Note:**

> Part of the inspiration for this fic came from the feud between Leonardo da Vinci and Michelangelo Buonarotti, and the fact that both of them were working in murals for the council chamber of the Palazzo Vecchio at roughly the same time. Leonardo was painting the Battle of Anghiari (lots of horses there), while Michelangelo was in charge of the Battle of Cascina (an ambush by the river, lots of naked people). According to what I found, neither painting was finished and both were lost. There are some copies made by apprentices to both artists, though.
> 
> About the food, I hope reading this makes you as hungry as I got writing it. Probably some of the dishes mentioned were invented some years later than 1505, but I don't care. Aziraphale would've loved them anyway.
> 
> Thanks to ewezfell for the ideas and setting.


End file.
